


Starstruck

by BeautifulThief



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, NBA!Aomine, Supermodel!Kise, rating will definitely change in the future
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 20:30:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2786696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulThief/pseuds/BeautifulThief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been years since the last Winter Cup, where Aomine and Kise's life paths appeared to diverge. When Kise makes his home in the same city as Aomine's team and reconnects with him, though, it's not an unwelcome development.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cimberelly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cimberelly/gifts).



> Happy birthday to my dearest, most wonderful cimberelly; you have made the last six months (can you believe it's been that long already?) absolutely wonderful and incredible, and you continue to inspire me. I look forward to our conversations, whether we're crying about these dumb babies, plotting, or doing other things, and you are absolutely so precious. I am thankful every day for the fact that you reached out to comment on Heartstone, and set the ball rolling on our friendship and partnership. So thank you so so much for coming into my life; and I really hope that you enjoy this, even though we totally plotted it out together and you know what's going to happen.

This is the last time.

Daiki knows it is; Kise hasn’t been shy about sharing his post school plans.

The way he’d looked at Daiki as he’d told him was branded into his mind.

It made him angry, made him _burn_. Kise could do anything, he’d proven it time and time again, fucking mimic, copycat; _Kise could do anything_.

Daiki couldn’t afford to have his mind on anything but this game, this moment, this last forty minutes in which everything Kise was, was a product of him, for better or for worse. He wanted to sear it into his bones, how it felt to play with everything against Kise, how it felt to have Kise play with everything he had against him.

_“I’m going international,”_ he’d said, and his smile had been soft and gentle like Daiki was a scared animal, so he’d thrown his basketball at Kise and he’d finally, finally caught it.

_“What’s your point?”_ Daiki had asked, as if he didn’t know exactly what it meant. Kise had followed in his wake for years. It was impossible not to know that this was Kise’s final departure, the last piece to fall since the moment he’d stood on the court in their first year of high school and found the resolve to bring Daiki down from where he admired him and back to someplace human.

If Kise had understood that Daiki knew, he hadn’t let on. It was hard to tell sometimes with Kise, who could read people so effortlessly. _“This winter,”_ he’d said. _“It’ll be the last time we play against each other like this.”_

Kise could do anything. Daiki knew and believed it in someplace sacred and special that no one and nothing could touch, and that’s why it burned so bitterly that Kise had chosen to try and become a celebrity, a supermodel, rather than finish the chase down the court. Kise could go pro; they all knew it was easily within his reach and talent, and Daiki would have been right there next to him—

These are tomorrow’s thoughts, tomorrow’s melancholy. Tonight, he and Kise are going to burn brighter than they ever have before, together, one last time.

Daiki steps out onto the court, and the only things he lets himself feel are the ball and the way it feels to have Kise chase after him one last time; he lets himself play with all the love he has in his heart for this game and Kise Ryouta.

 

* * *

 

The plain and honest truth of it all was that at between the ages of sixteen and nineteen, Aomine Daiki was head over heels in love with stupid fucking new-girlfriend-every-fucking-week Kise Ryouta.

Daiki was never an overly thoughtful person; it was too much wasted time and effort for the most part, to think about unnecessary and/or troubling things. The revelation that he was kind of hot for Kise and probably wouldn’t mind making out with him and doing other significantly less G-rated things with him wasn’t one that he dwelled on for too long.

After all, at least he had taste; it was pretty much universally recognised that Kise was hot. Well, some people liked to use words like _beautiful_ and _handsome_ and _gorgeous_ and _pretty_ and shit like that. It all really boiled down to the fact that Kise had a nice face and body to look at.

So being attracted to Kise wasn’t special. Sometimes, it seemed as if half of Japan was attracted to Kise.

The troublesome thing was that Daiki actually had _feelings_ for Kise. It wasn’t so much about the fact that Daiki wouldn’t mind fucking him (and he wouldn’t. He _very much_ wouldn’t. In one of his more curious moments, he’d looked up how it was done, and well... even though it sounded like a lot of work, he’d totally be up for it if Kise was). The problem, for Daiki, was that he knew Kise was whiny and annoying and never shut up and had an enormous ego and was a little shit, and he _liked him anyway_.

That was the bit he didn’t really like to think about.

So he didn’t really. He ignored it, and he ignored Satsuki’s veiled and not-so-veiled comments about it – and how the _fuck_ did she know anyway, when he’d never breathed a word about it? – and he pretended that it didn’t matter, because it _didn’t_.

Lying to yourself is a bad habit for a number of reasons, but the biggest one is probably because of the moment you catch yourself out in your own lie; because after their last game is over there’s nothing for Daiki to focus on but the thought _Kise is leaving_.

And he can’t pretend that he doesn’t care and that it doesn’t matter because it _does_ , and there’s a feeling like maybe he was going to regret never having confessed to Kise, even though he still can’t imagine ever telling him.

Knowing Kise, he’d probably be in contact. But there was definitely the sense that there would never be another time like this in their lives where they were so close.

He dealt with it pretty much the way he dealt with everything;

Daiki ignored it, and kind of hoped it would sort itself out in the end.


	2. Chapter 1

He should have seen it coming.

Everyone around was in high spirits post-game – they’d pulled a win tonight, and Daiki could still feel the aftermath of the way electric had felt as if it pulsed through his body as he moved. His teammates are all chucking sweaty clothes and wet towels back and forth at each other now that the reporters had left. Boys never really did grow up, it seemed.

It was good. Basketball was good, and Daiki finally thought he’d found the place in his life where he was happy. He’d managed to become good enough at English to connect with the people around him, and most of his teammates lived and breathed basketball the way he did. He was doing what he loved while being challenged in a way he’d once never thought was going to be possible. And he was making a bunch of money while he did so. So long as he didn’t have some kind of injury, he’d be set for life when he retired.

Everything seemed to be going well and to plan. That’s how Daiki figures he should have known that something was going to happen.

“Hey, Daiki,” called one of his teammates. Andy, their starting center. “There’s someone wanting to talk to you.”

“If it’s a reporter, I don’t wanna,” he answered. He hated talking to reporters. They always wanted to talk to him because he was the ace; but even though they were pretty good about his English not being great, and despite it now being passable, Daiki always felt uncomfortable and clumsy in speaking heavily accented English in front of the camera.

“Nah, he says he’s a friend of yours. He looks kind of familiar, but I don’t know where I’ve seen him before? Tall, blond, looks a bit like he’s from the same place as you are?”

That sounded a lot like...

Daiki frowned, and pulled a shirt on. “Yeah, okay. I think I know who it is.”

He stepped outside and it was almost like stepping back in time a little bit; or it would be, if Kise were wearing a uniform too, instead of the undoubtedly high-class suit he’s wearing. There are small physical changes; Kise is a little taller and thinner than he used to be, since his job doesn’t require him to have the kind of build he had while playing ball, and his face has reached its full maturity and lost the little bit of childish softness it had had left.

He’s as beautiful as he ever was.

“Kise,” he said, and laughed a little. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Even though Daiki’s smiling and laughing, Kise pouted. “Mean, Aominecchi,” he said. “I came all this way and used all my wiles to get myself back here to see you, and you’re not even happy to see me?”

“If you’d really wanted to get in contact, you would have gotten my number from Satsuki,” Daiki pointed out.

Kise puffed out his cheeks. The expression was strangely childish, especially when Daiki looked at his attire. “It was a surprise!” he complained. He dropped the look quickly in favour of a fond smile, though. “You played well, Aominecchi.”

“Of course I did. It’s me, after all.”

Kise ran a hand through his hair, and Daiki’s eyes caught the flash of blue still sitting in his ear all these years later. “You’re hopeless, Aominecchi,” he despaired. “Shooting me down at every turn, when all I’m trying to do is reconnect with you!”

Daiki leaned against the wall and grinned. “It always was fun stirring you up,” he admitted. “I can’t help myself.”

Kise’s shoulder slumped in mock-despair, and he sighed. “It’s not fair, aren’t you supposed to have grown out of this bullying by now?”

“Just give me your phone number already, Kise,” Daiki groaned. “That’s what you’re here to do, right? Some grand reunion and a promise to catch up?”

“You’re no fun, Aominecchi,” Kise informed him. “Phone please.”

“It’s in my bag, hang on.” He ducked back into the change room.

“So, who’s your friend? He’s famous, right?” Andy asked. The rest of the team was listening in with various degrees of obviousness, and they had clearly been discussing his visitor.

“His name is Ki- Ryouta.” Kise’s given name felt odd on his tongue after a lifetime using his last. “Ryouta Kise.”

Andy snapped his fingers. “Ah, my girlfriend likes him, that’s how I know him. He’s a model, right? How the hell do you know a model?”

“Why _shouldn’t_ I know a model?” Daiki answered, a little insulted. “But Kise and I go back to middle school. We played on the same basketball team.”

He dug his phone out of his bag. No missed messages, but that’s to be expected; most of his American social circle is in this room, and Satsuki would be sleeping. She records his games and watches them later.

He pushed back out into the hall; Kise was leaning against the wall and playing a game on his phone. It was brand new and shiny; just like it always had been back during high school as well.

He pocketed it when he looked up at Daiki.

“Why are you putting it away, idiot?” he asks. “Gimme.”

Kise beamed as he pulled his phone back out and pressed it into Daiki’s hand before snatching his own phone away. “I didn’t think you’d want me to have your number, since you were always the crankiest about getting mails from me.”

He paused midway through entering his contact details into Kise’s phone.

Kise’s got one of those sly looks on his face, like now that he’s gotten a reaction he’s _definitely_ going to emulate his old messaging habits _just_ to annoy him.

There’s an old part of him that aches at the familiarity of having Kise around like this, especially after he’d resigned himself years ago to knowing that they would never be as close as they used to be. It made the idea of reconnection alluring. The nostalgia inevitably attached to Kise would soothe any homesickness; though it didn’t often pop up anymore, it did happen sometimes. Usually he called Satsuki, but it would be nice to have someone more immediately available.

And Kise’s always been pretty easy to get to spend time with him. Daiki won’t even have to do the hard work of admitting he wants to see him; Kise will probably want to beg some time off him whenever he can.

Knowing that, he shrugged and continued putting his number in Kise’s phone. “I can block your number if it gets too bad,” he said. He probably wouldn’t, but that wasn’t the point.

Kise sighed. “Mean.” But he was already done putting his own number in Daiki’s phone.

As they traded back, Daiki noticed Kise’s hands had lost the roughness that they’d accumulated while he’d still been playing basketball.

Kise smiled and pushed away from the wall, his phone in hand. Daiki knew better than to think the movements were anything but calculated.

“It was really good to see you play again, Aominecchi,” he said. “Makes me wish I’d maybe kept going with basketball instead. We should catch up sometime! We’ll play one on one for old times’ sake.”

“It’ll go just the same as it did back then too,” Daiki agreed, and Kise laughed.

“Probably,” he admitted. “It’s been a while. I’m too busy to make any connections with people who might play with me.” He took a few backwards steps. “Anyway, be in touch, okay!”

“More like you’ll be in touch, Kise,” Daiki called, and Kise grinned before turning on his heel. He waved his hand over his head in goodbye; but he didn’t look back.

Well, it never was Kise’s style anyway.

Daiki sighed, and looked down at his phone. Out of curiosity, as he made his way back into the locker room, he checked how Kise had put his name in.

He couldn’t help but laugh at the way Kise had framed his name in sparkles and hearts; he must have activated the emoji keyboard on his phone while Daiki had been thinking about whether to go through with giving Kise his number.

Daiki couldn’t bring himself to change it, and pocketed his phone before entering the change room again, because as much as he liked the guys, the last thing he wanted was for one of them to catch him mooning over his phone.

“We going for dinner?” someone yelled out across the room. It sounded like Lyall, their backup point guard.

“Course we are,” answered someone closer to Daiki. When he looked over, it was the starting shooting guard, James.

“No drinking,” was half-heartedly shouted over the room by their captain; Daniel, their starting point guard. “You know the drill.”

The rest of the team made a theatrical fuss about their hard-ass captain, though they’d all been around long enough to know that drinking during the season was a bad idea for a number of reasons, and Daiki smiled slightly, chucked his phone back into his bag, and joined in the easy camaraderie as the team began to slowly migrate out.

 

* * *

 

 

“Kise came by the other day.”

It wasn’t easy to find the time to have calls with Satsuki. She could be a very busy and determined woman, after all. She was eyeing off a CEO position – her five year plans were meticulous and terrified him – and she worked a _lot_.

But the two of them had a standing weekly call organised. Once a week, no matter what, they had a the time set aside between their work commitments and timezones to keep in touch, because Satsuki, even after all this time, couldn’t shake her reflexive need to check in on him and make sure he wasn’t fucking up his life.

She hummed thoughtfully. “It took him longer than I expected,” she commented. “You’ve been living in the same city for a while now.”

Daiki scowled at the screen Satsuki’s face glowed from. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

Satsuki looked at him in that very familiar ‘are you _kidding?_ ’ kind of way that made Daiki warm with familiarity and closeness. “You shouldn’t have needed me to,” she said, deliberately slowly, because he knew she often compared speaking with him to being like speaking to a child. “Did you exchange your new numbers?”

Daiki made an affirmative humming noise, and leaned back into the chair, stretching his arms above his head, and she smiled.

“I’m glad you two have reconnected. Ki-chan was always special to you, wasn’t he?”

There was rarely any point in lying to Satsuki, or denying things she already knew; and she _did_ already know. “Well, yeah,” he answered. “It’s all in the past, though. Kise’s the same as always, right?”

Satsuki nodded. “He’s rarely sighted with the same person more than a handful of times,” she agreed. “They’re just all much more high profile then they used to be.” She giggled. “He has a _reputation_.”

Daiki snorted.

“Don’t make that noise,” he was chastised. “Don’t think I haven’t heard about _your_ antics, Dai-chan, even if _you_ don’t tell me about them.”

He rolled his eyes at her. “Don’t start. I don’t do that during the season, and I’ve never been half as bad as Kise.” He seized the opportunity to change the subject. “Speaking of love lives, are you still dating that loser?”

“Higa-kun is not a loser,” she argued.

“He’s _definitely_ a loser,” Daiki said, and smirked as she huffed.

They were quiet for a moment, taking in the other through the video connection.

“Are you going to come home through the off season this year?” Satsuki asked, voice quiet.

“Haven’t thought about it,” he answered. “Season’s still got a while to go before it ends. Why, do you miss me?”

“Who would miss a brute like you?” Satsuki teased.

“Well, _I_ definitely don’t miss your nagging.”

He was going to get it for sure the next time they were in the same place – Satsuki never forgot _anything_ – but he never really could help himself.

“So, what did you think of this week’s game?”

Satsuki shuffled around her desk for something. “It’s still too hard to tell a lot of things when I have to rely on commercial broadcast recordings,” she said, like she did every time, as if he would forget, “but you were moving much like normal. Favouring your right a little bit I think. Did you pull something on your left?”

 

* * *

 

Daiki’s daily routine could vary somewhat, but generally, it tended to involve practice five times a week, with weights sessions at least twice a week; game day involved no practice, and the rest day was always the day after, before it all started again. He had a surprising, and annoying, number of appointments he had to keep – dieticians who despaired over his lack of care for diet, recovery sessions post-practice, meetings with team sponsors occasionally.

His teammates were cool, and sometimes they went out; but training was usually tiring, and some of the guys had girlfriends or families, so bar crawls and clubbing (which Daiki enjoyed less, although it tended to involve a lot more women rubbing up against him) tended to happen only during the off-season when they could drink.

But it was fine. Daiki had no plans to settle down in America permanently, after all. Japan was home at the end of the day, the place where his parents and Satsuki were; he had no desire to meet someone who would want to tie him here permanently. And when the season was on, he had no time or energy for a girlfriend anyway. He was still pretty lazy, after all, and any effort he wanted to expend on another person got spent preserving the connection with Satsuki who was, easily, the most important person in his life.

He was dozing off on the couch after practice – he had all afternoon free, so he’d decided he’d have a nap, because he never got to nap as much as he liked anymore – when his phone buzzed.

He reached for the device lazily and looked at it.

_Kise Ryouta_ – surrounded by far too many sparkles – was the sender.

It was actually fairly surprising that it’d taken the pretty boy so long to send a message. It could probably wait, but...

He opened the message.

_We should meet and catch up properly!!! Maybe play 1-on-1 for old time’s sake?_ 八(＾□＾*)  
 _I haven’t played in a while, but I won’t let that stop me from beating you!_ ੭•̀ω•́)੭̸*✩⁺˚

He snorted, and began to compose a reply, his intention to nap put aside for the moment. Probably, Kise would blow up his phone if he didn’t answer, he reasoned, and would just prevent him from getting the rest he wanted. It’d be a faster route to sleep if he answered now.

At least, that was what he would have told someone, if there had been anyone around to ask.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goal for next year: to have this finished before Crissy's next birthday so I can give her something new next year
> 
> That being said - happy birthday my darling <3 I'm sorry I've been phenomenally useless on the writing front for the past few months orz
> 
> I love you :3

_✨Aominecchi!✨_

Ryouta had been staring at this new contact in his phone for days. Initially, all it had said was ‘aomine’ – but Ryouta had never had such a plain contact for him before, and didn’t intend to start now.

Honestly, he hadn’t actually gone to watch Aomine play with the intention of reconnecting. He’d been right, after all; they’d been in the news enough that both of them had been aware of each other’s careers, and had known the other was over here in America. If Ryouta had really wanted Aomine’s number, he’d have contacted Momoi, who was unfailingly connected to all of the Miracles even now that they’d all split their separate ways, and especially connected to Aomine.

He’s not _nervous_.

That would be ridiculous, after all.

It’s just, watching Aomine play that evening had been _incredible_ ; it had almost been like that day in junior high all over again, watching a boy who shone brighter and fiercer that Ryouta had ever believed anyone else ever could, whose talent was brighter than even his own. It was like that, and _more_ , because even though he’d really had nothing to do with Aomine reaching this stage, his heart had felt full to bursting with pride for his friend. After all, it wasn’t easy to make a career out of professional sports, especially not with the language barrier that he and Aomine had originally had to tackle in their respective careers, as well as establishing themselves. But here they both were.

The whole game he’d sat and wondered what his life might have been like, if he’d continued the chase after Aomine. Ryouta wasn’t naive. He’d known that he had the talent, that _all_ of them had had the sheer _talent_ to reach the stage Aomine now stood on.

Ryouta’s decision had been incredibly difficult.

While there had been a great deal of desire to continue with basketball, to play until his body gave out him, to keep racing down the court with Aomine and Kagami, there’d been a lot of pressure – from his management, from his family, and also from himself – to take the ‘safer’ option. He had an established career already as a model; his agency had been waiting for the chance to lure him onto the international stage, but someone seemed to have gotten the clue that it wasn’t happening while he was playing basketball.

Ryouta did enjoy his modelling too; it was safe and constant, it was something to do that had never let him down the way sports had. He had been loath to give it up. He could always play basketball with Aomine or Kagami, or the other Miracles back in Japan, for fun, after all. Basketball was ingrained in them, no matter where they would go in their lives, and they belonged to a special club that was acknowledged but never expressly mentioned. He would never _truly_ stop playing basketball.

So he’d told Aomine first.

It had felt somehow most important to tell Aomine. He couldn’t explain why; perhaps it was because of how inextricably linked Aomine and basketball had become in his brain. Maybe it was because he felt like he owed it to Aomine, for him to be the first to know that Ryouta was forging a different path.

Ryouta didn’t regret picking this. He didn’t wonder what it would be like playing basketball because he regretted making the choice to not go pro. He simply wondered because watching Aomine shine like he had when he’d been fourteen and unstoppable felt as if it had set alight all the embers that had been burning through Ryouta since that first day he’d seen him; the fire that would never truly go out.

He wanted to play.

He wanted to play with a fierce desire that hadn’t struck him in years, since the last official game he’d played that last, beautiful winter. He wanted to play against _Aomine_. Or Kagami, though he wasn’t in this part of America.

Ryouta looked at himself in the mirror. He was a lot slimmer now than he was when he’d been playing basketball. He’d never been big the way Aomine or Kagami or Murasakibara had been – he tended towards a leaner build, sort of like Midorima or Akashi – but he didn’t have as much muscle to him as before. Enough to look good in shoots where he was shirtless, but it wasn’t the kind of condition which would have him keep up with Aomine in his prime, which was how he was now. He was in the best _condition_ of his life, making the most ridiculous, crazy shots, better and more insane than in high school, when Ryouta had watched him and wondered just how much more monstrous Aomine could get, and thought surely, _surely_ he couldn’t reach any higher.

He hadn’t meant to lose contact with basketball the way he had. Moving to America had been difficult, and the establishing of his career on this world-wide stage had been hard work. He’d never had the time to find a group of people to play with, let alone find someone who might come close to being the kind of fun to play with that any Miracle was.

_✨Aominecchi!✨_

He swapped to the text message screen and began to compose a new message.

_We should meet and catch up properly!!! Maybe play 1-on-1 for old time’s sake? 八(＾□＾*)_

_I haven’t played in a while, but I won’t let that stop me from beating you! ੭•̀ω•́)੭̸*✩⁺˚_

He hovered over the send button for a moment before realising he was acting very much like an insecure teenager, which he _very much wasn’t_ , and had no reason to feel like; so then he decisively pressed the send button.

He swapped conversation screens to another one, fully expecting not to get a reply from Aomine for a few days at least. He always was slow to respond, if he responded at all, and Ryouta didn’t think that they had reconnected fully enough for him to blow up Aomine’s phone _just_ yet.

He’d just started messaging one of his model friends who he liked to go out with when his phone vibrated in his hand, and the message alert at the top of the screen screamed _✨Aominecchi!✨_  at him.

_Lol whatever. Just for that I won’t give u first ball._

Ryouta pouted. That was so typical – they both had to know he was full of shit. He hadn’t missed the way Aomine had looked at him in such an evaluative manner, looking at his condition for basketball and he had to know just as well as Ryouta did that he wasn’t even close to being a match for him now.

Ryouta’s pride would never let him _admit_ it though, especially given that so much of their friendship had been built around their rivalry. And this was how he’d always been. The challenge posed and the declaration of the win to come – it was all so nostalgic, and it made Ryouta smile and feel as if he was seventeen all over again.

_But I always get first ball! (；¬＿¬) it’s not like old times if I don’t get first ball!_

A pause.

_Ure a pain. Whatever i don’t care that much. U pay for food after and ill let you have it._

He grinned. Success. He’d already assumed he’d be buying their dinner.

_Okay! o((*^▽^*))o  So, when are you free????_

 

* * *

 

 

Between both of their schedules, organising a time to meet up was difficult; but they both finally managed to find time two weeks after Ryouta had sent his message to Aomine.

Ryouta’s early. Well, he was always the one to arrive first back home, but today his motive is less the excitement of playing with Aomine again, and more the need to refamiliarise himself with the ball in his hands. He doesn’t expect it to take much or very long – but to show Aomine the true extent of his rustiness would be inexcusable.

The ball in his hands feels and smells like new, because it is. The old few he’d still had in his possession had been flat, and well, it wasn’t as if it was going to break his bank account to indulge himself in a new basketball. He hadn’t been able to find his ball pump, either.

Ryouta pushed away his thoughts about what had happened in his life for his treasured basketballs to go flat and his ball pump missing entirely, and instead dribbled the ball experimentally. It was reassuring that his hand and body still remembered what to do.

He ran a few slow, lazy ball-handling drills as a warm up. He could feel the difference in his body compared to just a few years ago; he’d lost more muscle mass than he expected, and his movements don’t have the same kind of power they used to. It was frustrating, but not something that he was going to be able to fix in the short term.

Aomine was going to destroy him. Somehow, the certainty with which that thought rang through his mind made Kise feel both incredibly frustrated and incredibly giddy.

He was just starting to feel a little bit more like he used to on the blacktop when he’s startled from his activities by a – literally - painfully familiar knock to the head.

“Aominecchi,” he whined, standing straight and rubbing the throbbing back of his head. “Was that really necessary?”

Aomine shrugged, but there was a subtle twitch to the corner of his mouth. Clearly _he_ thought it was necessary, even if Ryouta didn’t.

“You’re rusty,” he commented, blunt as ever. Ryouta laughed.

“Not all of us get to play basketball every day anymore, you know!”

He grunted, and dropped his bag next to Ryouta’s. “Well, I already knew I was going to stomp all over you. But if you want to do this regularly, you should practice a little more.”

“I don’t want to hear that from you, Aominecchi,” Ryouta said. “It’s hypocritical.”

Aomine scowled, and moved to retrieve his basketball. “I’m right, though.”

“Well, yeah,” Ryouta had to admit that much, at least. “But I don’t think you have the right to go around telling other people to practice more, what with the way you used to be about practicing.”

Aomine smacked the back of his head as he walked past. “I regret agreeing to come already. I’m not like that anymore, idiot.”

Ryouta made a whining noise at him for hitting him. “Aominecchi!”

Aomine picked up his ball and set it to spin on his finger. “Come on, model boy. Just looking at you makes me feel like you need to be taken down a peg or ten. I’m ready when you are.”

Ryouta grinned, and opened his hands for the ball.

...and then he was beaten _soundly_.

Ryouta had heard a number of descriptors from Aomine in regards to his defeats over the years; today, Aomine _gleefully_ used the words ‘completely thrashed’.

Ryouta regretfully couldn’t find any evidence to support a disagreement.

“Pathetic,” Aomine commented as they walked towards Ryouta’s car. Despite his words, there was a faint grin on his face. “You suck again, Kise.”

“You’re being _mean_ today, Aominecchi,” Ryouta grumbled. “I’m definitely going to get better again.”

“You do that,” Aomine said. Ryouta had the feeling he was being humoured. “In the mean time, I foresee free dinners in my life for a while.”

Ryouta sighed and let his head drop. “You’re brutal.”

Aomine shrugged, and slung an arm around his shoulders. “Ah, but you like me that way. Come on model boy. Dinner time. I’m starving.”

He slid into Ryouta’s car, easy as anything and haphazardly chucked his bag and ball into the backseat. “I feel like burgers,” he announced as Ryouta started the car. “Do you know somewhere good?”

“Not really,” Ryouta admitted as he pulled out of his park. “I don’t eat out much. I’m too recognisable and unflattering photos end up all over the internet.”

“Never used to stop you,” Aomine pointed out.

“It was different at home.”

They were quiet for a bit then, while Ryouta drove. It was a nice contented sense, at least for Ryouta, whose body was buzzing pleasantly from its previous exertion, though the company was also appreciated. _I missed this_ , he realised. _I missed being around the people who know me best._

It was that feeling that gave him the idea.

“We should put aside time to do this,” Ryouta said. “When we’re both in town, I mean. I’ll give you access to my calendar! Or you can give me access to yours and I’ll tell you when we’re both free, if you’re still as lazy as you always used to be.”

Aomine only grunted, but Ryouta took it as an affirmative, since he knew he was unlikely to get anything more on this particular subject. He smiled.

“Give me directions to the nearest burger place,” Ryouta told him. “There’s no point to driving around aimlessly, and you’re annoying when you’re hungry.”

Aomine shot him a mildly incredulous look – probably for having the audacity to comment on _other_ people being annoying – but then sighed and reached into the back seat to dig his phone out of his bag and look up a burger place on his Map app.

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey! Hey, Ryou!”

Ryouta looked up from his phone, his head turning towards the voice that had called out to him. He knew the voice well, after all; Max was one of the few industry friends who he actually enjoyed spending time with.

“Max,” he answered, and smiled. “Hi! I didn’t know you were in town.”

Max spent a lot of time jetsetting around the world with various beautiful and wealthy people – the odds of him being in town at any given point were fifty fifty.

“I’ve gotta earn my keep sometimes, you know,” Max answered, voice easy and flippant. “You up to go out tonight?

Ryouta pulled his phone from his pocket and checked his calendar.

“Doesn’t look like I’m busy tomorrow,” he said, and leaned so his shoulder was against the wall. “You got a place in mind then?”

“I wanted to go to this place... ah, but you don’t like going to the gay clubs, do you? You like to keep it all insiders, don’t you?”

Ryouta frowned at him. Max knew very well what his stance was on it.

“Yes, yes, I know.” Max waved a hand at him. “You like it just fine; it’s the whole paparazzi thing.” He theatrically came to lean against the wall next to him with a thump. “You know your career will be fine now, right? It's pretty much _expected_ at this point.”

Ryouta didn’t really care to explain to Max about what it was like at home, and how it wasn’t _like_ here, and how one day he’ll have to go back and be recognised far more there than he was here. He also didn’t care to explain how much of it was simply habitual – after all, his first partner had pretty much drilled it into him, the importance of secrecy.

 

Ryouta had started modelling at thirteen, when he’d started at junior high – his sister had arranged for him to have portfolio pictures taken after her own career had taken off, and after her agency had seen his pictures, they’d been quick to snap him up. He was photogenic, athletic, and beautiful, and while the work wasn’t really boredom relieving, it did give him money to spend, which was kind of boredom relieving, when he found the time to spend it.

It was when he was fifteen that one of his co-workers at the time had asked him if he would like to do something interesting after they were done with their shoot.

Ryouta couldn’t remember his name anymore – it hadn’t been important, he wasn’t a big enough for Ryouta to have to know who he was or anything, though he’d been modelling for a longer amount of time than Ryouta had – but his face was imprinted in his mind. It had had a lovely shape, and a good complexion; very dark brown eyes, and dark hair, which had been silky to the touch.

Ryouta could remember asking him, as they’d left the building where they’d done their shoot, why he thought Ryouta would be interested, and he’d laughed, and said he’d been keeping an eye on Ryouta for a while – remembered how vibrant he’d become last year, and how he had become less so in the year that had followed. Boredom, he’d said, was the curse of the popular and beautiful.

His industry senpai had been sixteen, and he was good-looking enough. Ryouta had been on dates with girls, of course; he’d been hot commodity within the Teikou grounds since his career had started, and only gotten more and more popular with them as his basketball star had taken off to shine in the distance with all the others. But this... well, he hadn’t been entirely sure at first, but he also hadn’t thought that it was disgusting or anything and the guy had promised him a good time.

And it had been - back then, it’d been the best head he’d gotten in his short life; the few girls who’d tried it on him before were still learning, as eager as they could be. This guy, he knew what he was doing, looked up Ryouta’s body with those deep brown eyes, and Ryouta couldn’t deny that at fifteen, having this gorgeous, older boy desire him was one of the biggest boosts to his ego since Aomine had told him he “wasn’t too bad” at basketball.

He hadn’t thought he could like boys, having always preferred girls, though he had never been so particular about body types as Aomine was; but he was pretty into them once the option was opened up to him. He was with his industry senpai only a few times, but it was long enough for him to make it clear to Ryouta what the ‘rules’ were, so to speak, amongst those of them that played around like this.

They all kept this low profile; everything was done with protection or not at all, and everything was kept within their group. It was safest to keep it that way, because they all had a relatively equal amount to lose from it becoming public. It helped, of course, that they were all fairly attractive individuals, so there wasn’t really a need to look outside their circle for someone who was better looking. There was an email group, and once you were part of it, you could ask for company; or you could request someone’s company in particular, though people always had the right to refuse, and you weren’t supposed to take it personally. Ryouta had been very popular once his senpai had hooked him up with the mailing list, and he’d never lacked for a partner if he wanted one, whether it was because he was bored and horny, or just sexually frustrated in general.

Once basketball had gotten interesting again, courtesy of the Miracles splitting apart to face one another, and the appearance of one Kagami Taiga, Ryouta had found little time or energy between his dates with girls and his basketball commitments to hook up with people as frequently; but every now and again, there had been itches to scratch, and there had also remained willing partners, so if he really wanted it, it was never hard to find someone willing to come over for a bit of sex.

When school had ended and it had come time for him to jet off to parts unknown, he’d initially figured he’d just have to hook up with girls, and that was fine, as long as he was careful.

And that was when he’d met Max.

Ryouta had been in America for a few months at that point, finally sorting out the language and communicating better, though still not exceptionally well. He’d met Max at a photoshoot, where they were working with a pair of female models, and Ryouta could remember thinking that Max was incredibly beautiful even among this small group of people who were exceptionally lovely – and it wasn’t exactly a unique observation, since most of the men Ryouta knew were handsome or beautiful in some way, since most of his acquaintances here were other models.

But the difference was that Max was magnetic in a way that Ryouta had only seen in a handful of people before, and that was what had drawn him to Max.

He and Max had gone out drinking and clubbing after the shoots for that campaign had finished up; Max had been funny and patient with Ryouta despite the difficulty he still obviously had communicating, even more pronounced when Ryouta was tipsy, and he had enjoyed their night out a lot, letting loose and dancing. They’d both had prospects, girls sizing them up and giving off signs of their interest, but in the end neither of them picked up that night – instead, Max had taken him back to his apartment.

Ryouta was never sure if it had been Max’s plan to get him buzzed and then horny from sweaty dancing bodies rubbing up against him, mostly since he’d never asked and didn’t really care to know the answer. Ryouta had been a little drunk, but not so much that he didn’t remember the night together, which he fondly remembered as being fun and playful. He’d even let Max fuck him once, and he’d probably let him do it again, which was pretty unusual for him.

They hadn’t hooked up again after that night, though. Instead they’d become friends, because Ryouta appreciated Max’s patience with his language struggles, and Max seemed to think Ryouta was fun to be around. They made better friends than lovers anyway.

 

...which was a thought that brought Ryouta back to the present.

“Come on,” Max was wheedling, leaning in close. Ryouta could smell his cologne; why did he always have to smell so good? “I promise you, it’ll be worth your time, the boys are like, _exactly_ your type, the ones you like to mess up real nice.”

“Stop it,” Ryouta whined back to him. “That’s not _fair_.”

Max’s eyes lit up. “Oh, you haven’t had a pretty one for a while, have you? You _have_ to come Ryou! Look, I’ll even drag along Josh and Benny!”

Ryouta bit his lip.

“ _Please_ , Ryou?”

“Fine! Okay, alright,” Ryouta relented. “We’ll go. But if there’s no pretty ones there I’m leaving.”

“Yes!” Max cheered, throwing a celebratory fist in the air. “There will be, I _promise_! Ah, I’m so excited that you’re _finally_ coming along!”

Ryouta smiled at him slightly. It was hard to stick to his guns when Max was so determined, and he _would_ have a good time, even if Max's promise fell through. It wasn't like he minded dancing on his own, or going home alone - if he had fun then he didn't mind at all.

“So, pre-drinks at mine, you remember the place? We’ll all meet there and then we’ll go…”

Ryouta nodded along to Max’s eager planning, paying more attention to the excited grin on his face and the way his eyes had lit up, rather than what he was saying. Max would send him all the details later anyway, once he’d confirmed - read, harangued - their other friends into coming along, and Ryouta hadn’t seen Max in a while. He liked to get the chance to look and watch people, even now, since you never knew when you needed to have something disarming to deal with someone, whether it was a smile or a little gesture.

He managed to bring himself back to the conversation as Max pushed himself off of the wall.

“Anyway,” Max continued, “I have to go get ready for my shoot. I’ll see you soon, Ryou!”

“Work hard,” Ryouta called to him as he began to trot away, and Max waved a hand but didn’t look back.


End file.
